


Fresher

by arrestjellyfish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bullying, Dreams, Drinking Games, Drug Use, Drunk John Watson, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Grocery Shopping, Lisping Sherlock, M/M, Meet-Cute, Unilock, r-word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-11 04:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17439941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrestjellyfish/pseuds/arrestjellyfish
Summary: Freshers’ Week: as much an idiotic-bordering-delusional social ritual as Mycroft had always informed him it would be. Joining in was irrefutably out of the question for Sherlock, who only wanted to get stuck into his degree work as soon as possible.Until, by a clumsy act of fate on the first night, he bumps into a certain John Watson who spikes his interest in a way he doesn't yet fully understand... Perhaps a bit of partying wouldn't be so bad after all. And if it just so happened to result in more time spent around John, well, Sherlock certainly wouldn't be complaining.





	1. The First Night

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy this fic, please consider leaving kudos or a comment, I love to hear from all of you! Please also leave a comment if you have any thoughts or suggestions on the story - it's only partly planned out and I welcome input from anyone :)
> 
> Subscribe for updates on when I post new chapters, which should be fairly steady (about one new chapter each week)
> 
> As always, feel free to drop by [my tumblr](https://dickeddowndetective.tumblr.com) for a steady bombardment of Johnlock memes

Freshers’ Week: as much an idiotic-bordering-delusional social ritual as Mycroft had always informed him it would be. Dumb teenagers coming to a strange place, meeting strange people - then getting fuckfaced whilst simultaneously fucking each other’s faces with no end in sight for the next seven days. Really, had Homo sapiens evolved over hundreds of thousands of years for _this_?

 

Sherlock squeezed past two sweaty, intoxicated bodies moving against each other in the dark, crowded corridor - hopefully innocently dancing, though Sherlock had to deliberately suppress every deduction that said otherwise to maintain this fiction of comfort. His hips reluctantly got caught in their movements as he passed, and he fought the urge to violently gag. A great deal more successfully, he supposed, than one of his many new flatmates, whose retching could be heard from the other end of their dingy university accommodation. Sherlock was never one to be paranoid or believe in a higher power, but on this night he couldn’t help thinking that, somehow, this entire experience had been pulled straight out of his nightmares and given corporeal form just to throw him for a loop before his degree started.

 

In total juxtaposition to his current situation, the summer before starting university had been wonderfully calm and so deliciously intellectual. Days spent lounging in the garden at his parents’ cottage, bees buzzing and pollen tickling his nose that was, as always, buried deep in his textbooks and tomes. He’d been studiously reading up on several unsolved cases from the sixties over those two months and was sure he could have some vital input on the linked resolution to all of them - if only Scotland Yard would listen to him one of these days. Several emails had only gotten him as far as the reception desk at the police station, and the one and only time he had felt confident enough to call them, they had plaintively told him to ‘let the adults do their work’ and asked what school he attended. As soon as Sherlock had noted the condescending tone of the receptionist, he’d slammed the receiver down with a humiliated heat burning his face.

 

Of course, Sherlock was reluctantly aware that he was unqualified and inexperienced in the technical sense to be making these enquiries (or rather claims of superior knowledge) but he knew with absolute certainty that he was more suited to the task of solving these murders than any other man or woman on the force. It was the message he sent that stated as such that got his email address permanently banned from Scotland Yard’s contact services. Sherlock could only hope that, now that he was attending a highly acclaimed Russell Group university, his deductions might be taken with a bit more consideration and respect. Still, the cases were decades old and served no threat to public health in the current time, so he supposed it could wait a few weeks. Maybe his voice would break just that bit more in that time, too.

 

By any means, he was at university now, ready to get stuck in some serious, gruelling studying - and yet here he was, fighting his way through clumps of drunkards just to get a glass of water to take some paracetamol because the noise and laser lights and the damned fog machine were _killing_ his head. Since when was suffocating on nitrogen-borne-glycol a fashionable party accompaniment?

 

Though he could understand most every other complexity of human nature, Sherlock could comfortably admit that this recreational brain-damaging ritual would always be beyond his comprehension. Joining in was irrefutably out of the question. He would prefer to just brave through it for the next few nights until everyone inevitably forgot all interactions that went on in this hazy period, and he could finally start to concentrate on his higher education without those horrible bass vibrations rattling the test tubes in his room.

 

The kitchen was barely visible through the fog, and there was an awful stench of marijuana that made Sherlock queasy - at least it was useful to know that the fire alarms weren’t so sensitive in the building. Perhaps he wouldn’t even need to break into the third year laboratories for his experiments - something that filled Sherlock with a faint glimmer of excitement for the coming days.

 

But just as this iota of positivity passed through Sherlock’s head, something hard and warm bashed into his side and within milliseconds his entire back and chest were covered in an ice-cold fizzling liquid. Sherlock squealed and arched his back against the disturbing sensation, eyes falling shut in shock and near-pain.

 

A raucous symphony of laughter and boyish shouts of amusement filled Sherlock’s ears and he cursed himself for not just guzzling water from the faucet in his bathroom. God, the sensation was truly _awful._ He could feel each bubble bursting on his sensitive skin, sending painful shills down his spine.

 

Amongst the discordant chuckling and chatter came a voice, far softer and more genuine than any of the other dozens of people invading Sherlock’s ears.

 

“Oh, shit, man. I’m sorry. Ah, all down your… Is this silk?”

 

Sherlock whipped around so fast it felt as if his head kept spinning past his body, though it could just have likely been for the claustrophobia and panic in his chest. He snatched his arm away from the young man who was drunkenly caressing the fabric of his pyjama sleeve.

 

“No, it is not silk,” it was satin weave cashmere _thank you very much,_  “and get your grubby hands off of me!”

 

“Woah,” the boy - blond, short, though broad in stature - held up his hands in surrender, stumbling slightly with the action. “I said ‘m sorry, mate. No need to get all… touchy.”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth so hard he could hear them grinding above the obnoxious stereo system. He _hated_ that phrase. People always used it to criticise his hypersensitivity - and by people he obviously meant Mycroft. Mummy’s stern glances at the older sibling were never enough to fend off Sherlock’s distress at being attacked on something entirely out of his control.

 

Needless to say, Sherlock launched into defence mode immediately, rattling off a harsh insult before he could suppress the urge: “I take it clumsiness runs in the family, given their long-held history of alcoholism. Or is it just you who presents such fantastic imbecility?”

 

The other boy paused - seeming to somehow sober up within seconds. His eyes were only just beginning to focus on Sherlock’s face, and there was a moment of quiet contemplation and thinly-veiled hurt in his deep blue eyes. Sherlock felt an absolute arse. His first interaction with someone at university and he’d already doomed himself to being a hated outcast. If the other was only drunk enough, perhaps Sherlock could reverse it…

 

“I - I mean--”

 

“That was fucking _mental_.”

 

Sherlock gulped, eyes squeezed shut, steeling himself for the inevitable namecalling and readying his stone-faced mask to hide how they hurt - how they always hurt.

 

Seconds passed with nothing, and Sherlock allowed himself to open his eyes - but there was no vitriol or violence to greet him, just a bright beaming smile, a little too red around the cheeks to hold up to the aforementioned ‘sobering up’.

 

“That was - You’re amazing!” was just about discernible over the horrible dance music pounding through the floor.

 

Sherlock’s cheeks burned, his heart skipping several beats. Was this… appreciation? For such a personal insult? Had Sherlock finally happened upon a genuinely insane person?

 

Sherlock had lost near all physical awareness in his shock until he was nudged gently on the chest and looked down to see the other boy’s hand held open to him.

 

“I’m John,” the warm hand sought out and clasped onto Sherlock’s own hand tightly, shaking it with fervour. “Nice to meet you!”

 

Sherlock swallowed down a bubble of anxiety and put on a confident, professional tone. “Sherlock. Uh… Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 

“Hmm, Sh’rlock,” John tasted the name on his tongue, still shaking Sherlock’s hand - quite redundant now. Finally, he declared with a sense of finality: “Posh name.”

 

Sherlock huffed out a sharp breath in half-amusement, half-indignation. He parried the comment with a parroting-tone, “Hm, John. Banal name.”

 

John chuckled and finally released Sherlock’s hand - why hadn’t he just pulled his hand away himself, Sherlock wondered.

 

“Alright, touché. Listen, I’m sorry about the -” he gestured mildly to Sherlock’s sodden shirt, bringing both boys to a sudden realisation that Sherlock’s nipples - erect from the cold of the spillage - were fully discernible beneath the thin, now see-through material of his pyjama top. He might as well have been walking around wet and topless.

 

“Oh,” was all Sherlock heard uttered from John’s lips before he rushed out of the room, making a beeline straight back to the sanctuary of his own bedroom. As soon as he was in safety he slammed his door closed with his back and leaned against it, hands pulled over his red face.

 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” The last curse was emphasised with Sherlock kicking behind him at the door - to which there was a muffled “Hey!” from the other side. Sherlock grumbled and flicked the lock without a moment’s hesitation. Only the first night and he had already ruined, then saved, then ruined a potential acquaintanceship.

 

He hurriedly shed the offending garment that started it all, pouting as he noticed the bright pink stains seeping into the beautiful cream fabric. What on earth was that boy drinking, anyway? He resolutely chucked it in his new washing basket - the first of many garments he would have to wash on his own. A small pang shot through his chest that felt suspiciously like home-sickness, but he was sure it was just the calling card of adult responsibility that made his stomach knot and shallowed his breathing. Surely.

 

Throwing on his ear defenders, Sherlock punched the light switch off and collapsed into bed, hoping desperately that the boy - John - would forget all about their disastrous encounter, or even that he lived in a different block in their accommodation and that Sherlock wouldn’t have to face him again, at least for a good while.

 

After several minutes of painful rumination under the duvet and some highly systematic stimming, Sherlock was finally calmed down enough to fall into an uncharacteristically restful sleep, filled with images of honeycombs, dog-eared books, and deep blue irises.


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two of his new life at university and Sherlock finds that his chance encounter the night before won't be so easy to forget, considering John is one of his new flatmates.

The next morning, Sherlock woke up well rested but feeling disgusting. He stunk of whatever-it-was that was spilt over him the night before and he had to actually peel his arm from his chest due to the stickiness. After a disappointing shower in his new bathroom (did the water really not go beyond 30 degrees Celsius in this building?) he pulled the window open, cursing the safety lock on it that would only allow it to be opened a crack. It was early September and still incredibly hot, an inch of ventilation wasn’t exactly a comfort.

 

Walking out in his thinnest dressing gown, Sherlock strode into the kitchen, dying for a cup of scalding-hot coffee. He put the kettle on, ground the coffee beans Mummy had bought him as a leaving-home present - taking a moment or two to inhale the rich smell - and readied his favourite mug and designer cafetiere. Just because he was living in a squalorous university flat now didn’t mean he had to give up his beloved luxuries, after all.

 

He was just sitting down with his brewing coffee at the kitchen table - cheap, ugly plastic made to look like wood - when the sound of the door opening behind him made him turn around only to be confronted by the image of a _very_ fit male body in nothing but a pair of blue boxers that set off a beautiful contrast to the tan skin it barely concealed.  

 

It took a great deal of effort, but eventually Sherlock lifted his eyes from the six-pack only for his stomach to drop instantly. John. The boy from last night. Just Sherlock’s luck that they were to be living together for the next few months after the disaster that was their first meeting…

 

“Morning,” John croaked out, eyes bleary and cradled by puffy dark circles. He walked straight past Sherlock and reached into one of the two fridges with urgency then started chugging tomato juice straight from the carton.

 

Sherlock blinked, plunging his cafetiere just to have something to do with his hands. John didn’t seem to recognise him. That was… good. He supposed. Though that did nothing to explain the sinking disappointment in his chest.

 

“Morning,” Sherlock muttered, eyes forcibly concentrating on the scientific diagram of a bee painted onto his mug as he poured his coffee, lest they traitorously wonder over to John’s torso again. He was an athlete, then. He had to be for those back muscles to ripple even as he was simply drinking… Oh. Sherlock was staring again. He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, frustrated by his lack of self-control. He could feel John’s eyes on him as he heard the fridge door slam shut.

 

“Weren’t… Didn’t you…” Sherlock could practically feel the cogs grinding against each other in John’s brain, struggling to piece together how he recognised him. He looked over at John, knowing full well there was a faint pleading on his face.

 

That seemed to give everything away and John’s eyes widened as his mouth pulled up in a cheeky smile. “Nipple boy!”

 

Frustration swirled though Sherlock like a hurricane. “Charming,” he spat, trying to hide the disappointment in his tone. He closed his dressing gown tighter.

 

“No, sorry, I--” John at least had the decency to look ashamed at that point, clearing his throat and looking - quite adorably - humble. His voice was entirely sincere as he apologised once more: “Sorry.”

 

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking down to his fingers that had been unconsciously stimming with the drawstring for his robe through the stunted exchange. He moved so that he sat on his hands and looked back to his new flatmate. He supposed if John was making an effort to be civil, he should as well.

 

He shrugged his shoulders lightly and nodded at the seat opposite him, an invitation to join him if John so wished. John smiled sweetly and held up a finger to indicate he would in a moment. He walked off and rattled around in a cupboard out of Sherlock’s line of sight. Sherlock breathed a quiet hum of relief, glad that it seemed the chance of an acquaintanceship with John wasn’t entirely lost. There was something different about this boy, something that didn’t seem to apply to logic, something Sherlock couldn’t quite pinpoint yet; and he did always love a challenge.

 

John finally jumped into the seat opposite Sherlock with an apple and a protein bar in his hands. He grimaced and wiggled on the seat, failing to get comfortable. “Don’t imagine they could afford anything more than plastic chairs for their high-paying residents.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in agreement, aware that he was avoiding eye contact but just hoping John wouldn’t interpret it as Sherlock not wanting to talk to him. “They weren’t too generous with the bathrooms either, have you had a shower yet?”

 

“No?”

 

“I strongly advise you keep it that way,” Sherlock leered, taking a sip from his mug, revelling in the burn of it on his tongue.

 

Then, John chuckled so wonderfully that it made Sherlock’s hand freeze as he lowered his mug. How could a simple laugh sound so _warm_?

 

“So you suggest I walk around the flat all sweaty for the next few months?” John joked. Sherlock shrugged lightly, not daring to speak a word. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d appreciate that,” John mumbled, and Sherlock really couldn’t tell from the sound of it whether it was sarcastic or… accusatory. His eyes darted up to John to check for any tell-tale facial nuances, but he only saw a glimpse of a smirk and the mischievous glimmer in John’s eyes before he promptly moved his eyes again, acting as if he was only meaning to look out of the window behind John.

 

“At least we’ve got a decent enough view.”

 

And they really did. From their position just on the south bank of the Thames, they could see plenty of London landmarks - The Gherkin, St Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament all in one skyline. Sherlock really thought it was beautiful.

 

“Wow, yeah,” John muttered in faint wonder after he turned around. He rose from his seat to stand in front of the window and take it all in. Again, Sherlock struggled to avoid looking at that body, now lit up in an alluring chiaroscuro in the warm sunlight, only drawing more attention to the perfect form of the tanned flesh.

 

“You ok?” Damn. He’d been caught.

 

“Hm,” Sherlock hummed, nonchalantly taking another sip of his coffee.

 

“I can put a top on if you--”

 

“No, no,” Sherlock quickly assured, feeling warmth in his cheeks at the desperation seeping into his voice. “I mean - I don’t mind.”

 

“I guess we’re even now, huh?” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught John licking his lips slowly, but before he had a chance to think about what that meant, John changed the subject. “Didn’t notice any of this view last night.”

 

Of course. Sherlock knew the subject couldn’t be avoided forever. “No, I can’t imagine you were in your most observant of moods.”

 

John chuckled, “Well…” then shook his head and bit his lip, appearing to stifle an even bigger smile. Sherlock frowned at him. “No. No, you’re right. Christ, I had too much. I know Freshers’ is all or nothing but…” He suddenly looked worn down and collapsed back into his seat, rubbing his forehead with his hands. Hungover, clearly. And… ashamed?

 

Sherlock almost wanted to ask if he was alright, but his eyes just flickered around, mouth moving silently in an awkward attempt to find the right words. “Um… Yes.” He fought the self-deprecating urge to slap his own face.

 

Suddenly John’s gaze flung up to him, searching and intensified by a furrowed brow. “How - How did you do that?”

 

“Do--”

 

“How did you know about my family?” John’s stare was suspicious and incredibly unnerving. Sherlock’s heart beat faster seeing the distrust and what could have been anger in the dark gaze.

 

“Well… I was in an observant mood,” he reasoned weakly.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I--” Sherlock wouldn’t lie to him. If this was going to be a dealbreaker, then he might as well be entirely open about his unpopular habit. “Your jeans, mainly.”

 

John sighed, face still contorted in confusion, “Right. And that means…”

 

Sherlock steeled himself. All or nothing.

 

“The tatters on your jeans, at the hem. They’re old, and the fabric is worn and discoloured. You’ve not had a new pair in years, not a fashion choice given, well, your grooming methods are… good. Uh, but it’s clear your needs have been neglected, your parents’ and your own doing. Money’s tight at home, but you were able to get to King’s without a scholarship - those students live in a separate part of the city - so it’s not a matter of coming from a working-class background. Your family must be spending what money they do have on something recreational and clearly addictive if it warrants never having any spare cash for a simple pair of trousers. Alcohol is a far more likely and accessible option than drugs in that respect, so…” Sherlock trailed off, clearing his throat softly. “It’s just… obvious.”

 

The kitchen was silent, save for the whirring of electricity in the various appliances. Sherlock took a loud slurp of his now warm coffee just to add something more to the emptiness. He’d been avoiding looking at John’s face through the explanation to escape the distaste and rage that must be present there.

 

“That… You got all that from my trousers?” His voice was quiet and distant. Then, he snorted a laugh and Sherlock met his eyes, twinkling with amusement and amazement. “You really are amazing, you realise that? I know I said it last night but… Wow.”

 

Sherlock held his mug up to his lips, hoping it at least partially disguised the flush he felt tingling his cheeks. He mumbled, “Meretricious.”

 

John shook his head softly, still staring at Sherlock, which felt a strange mixture of uncomfortable and flattering. John evidently noticed Sherlock’s unease and moved on. “So, you’re not the party type then?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the most dramatic fashion, hailing another smile from John. “I don’t see how anyone can be. It’s so dull and unproductive.”

 

“Well, it’s fun - can be, I should say,” John corrected himself, “But, hey, if it’s not for you then that’s cool. But we didn’t even know we had another flatmate…”

 

“We?”

 

“Yeah, everyone. Molly, Irene, Seb, uh… shit, I can’t remember their…” John was visibly racking his brain, tapping at his temples with his fingers. “Fuck. Well, the ginger one, anyway,” just then, the sound of the door flinging open echoed from behind Sherlock’s head. “Speak of the devil,” John greeted, smiling widely at something behind Sherlock. Far wider than he had smiled the whole time they’d been talking. Sherlock fought down the most ridiculous urge to cry.

 

“Alright, darling,” a deep voice grumbled fondly from behind, and Sherlock had a violent image of just jumping up and throwing whoever it was right out of the window. “Ah, and who’s this? You get lucky last night, Johnny?”

 

John was visually perturbed by something that had been said… Of course, Sherlock thought, he couldn’t have been perfect. Sherlock supposed it was just his luck to want to befriend someone who was homophobic.

 

“Unfortunately not, mate. This is Sherlock, another flattie,” John gestured to Sherlock and smiled at him, nodding slightly to the side, convincing Sherlock to turn and greet this intruder.

 

“Another? Jesus, alright,” the man smiled, dark brown eyes wide with surprise but teeth bared in a strangely predatory smile, “Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I’m Victor - Vic.” Oh, John couldn’t be homophobic. Victor was so obviously gay, and the vest proclaiming ‘I’m so gay I can’t even think straight’ in rainbow writing was definitely the clincher.

 

Sherlock just nodded to Victor and directed his gaze back to John, who mouthed ‘ _That_ was his name!’ to Sherlock in overjoyed relief. Sherlock couldn’t hold back an amused smile.

 

“Quiet one, ey?” Victor chuckled as he put no less than four slices of bread in the toaster. “Wait… Oh, man, were you the one John spilt his gross Tesco Cocktail all over?”

 

It took Sherlock a couple of seconds to recognise he was being spoken to, with the help of a slight nudge on his foot under the table. He tried his best not to blush at a mere toe poke. “Oh, yes. It was revolting.”

 

“I know, I took a sip and told him to chuck it… didn’t think he’d chuck it on you though.”

 

Sherlock was tired of social interaction now and swiftly stood up to leave. He at least offered a tight smile to the confused-looking Victor as he swooped past him on his way out. Just before he was at his end of the corridor, he heard a door open in the hall behind him, and he leapt into his room as quick as he could to avoid any other awkward conversation. His heart was pounding as he stood silently against his door, praying they hadn’t noticed. He heard the person pause in the hall then finally make their way to the kitchen, then a loud leering female voice proclaimed to the others “Who’s the frightened bunny rabbit?”

 

He groaned. How detestable.

 

* * *

 

After a few hours of reading through his textbooks, Sherlock was in quite a bad mood - it seemed, given the reading material assigned to them for the following weeks, the first semester would be spent entirely on revising some very mediocre biology from A-level in preparation for the real challenges in the course. He couldn’t speak for the other idiots likely to be in his class, but Sherlock liked to be challenged, and being quizzed on the difference between meiosis and mitosis was not his idea of an engaging university lecture. It just gave him more to dread.

 

To relax, he took it upon himself to start an experiment measuring amino acid production in saliva. After spitting more saliva than he knew his body could produce into an array of test tubes, he began to sort through his unpacked boxes for iodine dye. Just as soon as he found it, there was a loud ‘DING’ and a vibration emitting from his phone that was sitting abandoned on his bed. He was sure he had turned all notifications off aside from texts from Mummy, Daddy, and Mycroft, and that wasn’t the alert noise for any of them. Intrigued, Sherlock postponed the experiment and jumped onto his bed, lying flat on his tummy as he opened his phone to find a notification from the Facebook app - he must have forgotten he downloaded it - reading:

 

**John Watson has sent you a friend request.**

 

Sherlock’s stomach flipped and he felt a strange rush of adrenaline flood his body. John. He opened the request hurriedly and immediately hit ‘Accept’. He hadn’t had a friend request in… well, since Mummy sent one when he first got the account two years ago. He had done so somewhat reluctantly, hoping it would provide a good platform to boast his deductions and attract attention from people who might find use in them, but all it had really served as was a place for idiotic classmates to hurl abuse at him out of school hours. He hadn’t wanted to spend much time on it after that. Still, he neglected to delete the account just in case something promising came along by chance. This certainly felt promising. Another ding resounded through the room and he opened up the notification.

 

* * *

 

John Watson  
(Active now)

MON 17:01

 

You alright?  
17:01

How did you get my last name?  
Did you raid the accommodation  
registers?  
17:02

 

Didn’t need to. Not many  
Sherlocks on  Facebook, it  
seems.  
17:02

 

I see.  
17:02

 

_John set the nickname for Sherlock to 'Posh Boy'_

 

Was that necessary?  
17:03

 

No, but it's funny ;)  
17:03

 

I can change it back if you  
want?  
17:06

 

It's better than 'Nipple Boy'.  
17:06

 

Sorry about that. Again.  
17:07

 

No need.  
17:07

 

Are you ok, though?  
17:07

 

Why do you ask?  
17:08

 

Why are you avoiding the  
question?  
17:08

 

I'm gathering data.  
17:08

 

Right...  
17:08

You stormed out earlier when  
Vic was talking to you.  
17:09

 

Did I? I hadn't noticed.  
17:10

 

You of all people didn't notice  
someone was talking to you?  
17:10

 

You're an interesting one, you  
know that?  
17:12

 

People have told me, yes.  
17:12

 

Sorry.  
17:13

 

No need ;)  
17:13

 

Why are you still messaging me?  
17:14

 

Should I stop?  
17:14

 

No.  
17:14

 

I only meant you clearly have  
an unaccomplished motive.  
17:15

 

Suppose I better get used to  
this observance, hadn't I?  
17:16

 

The others and I are going to  
the union bar later, free beers.  
Wanted to see if you'd join?  
17:17

 

No thanks.  
17:17

 

Knew you'd say that.  
17:18

 

Which is why we're going to  
play drunk board games when  
we get back. You don't have to  
be drunk to join in though.  
17:18

 

Thank you for the offer.  
17:19

 

Come on, I know that's your  
polite way of saying no. It might  
be fun.  
17:19

 

You don't need to be scared.  
17:21

 

I'm not scared.  
17:21

 

I'll see you later then ;)  
17:21

  

* * *

 

Sherlock realised he had been gnawing on his bottom lip enough to draw blood - so much for not being scared. He locked his phone and dropped it down on his pillow as he collapsed fully, face smushed against his duvet. He spent a good while racking his mind palace for any party behaviours or specific conversation topics to use in an informal group setting, but he came out completely blank. At least he had a couple of hours to prepare himself - and he would at least try. He wanted to be a part of the games tonight if only to spend a bit more time with John, even as his heartbeat was already propelling him towards the usual debilitating social anxiety. After the message exchange, it seemed like John would actually consider him as an acquaintance and, though he wasn't entirely sure, his use of no less than three winky faces in their chat must have meant something more playful. Who knew, perhaps Sherlock would leave tonight with someone to finally call his friend. The prospect was too exciting to pass up, so he rose from the bed and moved to another one of his many unpacked boxes, rummaging through his shirts to find something a bit more presentable than his pyjamas. There would be no repeats of last night. This evening, Sherlock would be a true student. He was going to a party.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, it was a lot of fun to write. please consider leaving kudos if you are enjoying this story and, as always, I love to hear your opinions so leave a comment with what you thought :)
> 
> Coming up next: Sherlock's first ever attempt at 'partying'.


	3. A Fun Night In - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally time to introduce himself to the rest of the flat, and Sherlock is naturally wracked by nerves. Though having John Watson by his side helps to comfort him immensely, he must interact with his new flatmates without needing to hide behind John all the time. Sherlock only hopes this is as easily done as it is said.

The hour had finally struck. The flatmates had been making quite the ruckus in the kitchen since coming back from the bar and, for a few blissful minutes, Sherlock was under the impression that they’d forgotten about him entirely. His anxiety had been gradually building over the two hours since he heard the group leave the flat, and now that the reality was upon him, he really didn’t think he would be capable of partying with them tonight.

 

Just as he started to unbutton his shirt, internally cringing at how much effort he’d put into grooming himself for the evening, there was a rapping at his door and a muffled, “Sherlock? Are you decent?”

 

“Almost never,” Sherlock mumbled out sarcastically, thinking it was under his breath but the quiet chuckling from outside said otherwise. The door opened a fraction for John to pop his head in, his cheeks turning pink within seconds. Odd, it must have been a delayed reaction from the alcohol, or perhaps to the change in temperature in Sherlock’s room.

 

“Wow,” John uttered, glancing over Sherlock’s flower-print silk shirt and skinny jeans. “Nice shirt. That one must be silk, right?” he pushed gently, cheekily. Sherlock was coming to highly appreciate the playful back and forth of their exchanges.

 

“Correct, at last,” Sherlock smiled faintly, embarrassed to have been caught getting _un_ ready for the gathering.

 

“It happens,” John assured, finally stepping into the room and closing the door softly behind him. “What you doing?” he asked casually, but the gentle rise of his eyebrows told Sherlock that John had absolutely noticed what Sherlock was doing.

 

Sherlock shrugged, feigning fiddling with his button that he’d been caught unfastening. “Just…” He couldn’t even think of an acceptable excuse to tell to the sincerest of faces Sherlock had ever been witness to. “Hanging?” he added weakly, ashamed of such a poor lie.

 

“Well then,” John started, voice stern but forgiving. He held open the door for Sherlock. “Come and hang in the kitchen.” And who was Sherlock to deny such a gentle and confident request that seemed to beam into Sherlock’s very being a message that soothed _You’ll be alright. It’s all fine. Just breathe._

 

Sherlock nodded, turning around briefly (to John's faint amusement) to do his button back up - as if John witnessing this would be inappropriate - and take a deep breath. When he twirled back around he offered John the most confident of smiles he had to offer, even as his insides were bubbling away nervousness; a mixture of bile and, surprisingly, a faint smattering of excitement.

 

“Sher…” John trailed off, frowning at something over Sherlock’s shoulder. “What’s in those test tubes on your desk?”

 

Sherlock cast a glance behind him and replied as if talking about nothing more or less usual than the weather, “My spit.”

 

“Your spit?” John asked incredulously.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, who else’s would it be?” then walked straight past John and into the corridor, ready to party the night away.

 

* * *

 

“It has to be!” Sherlock yelled, infuriated with this ridiculous game.

 

The rest of the table was in fits of laughter, save for the miserable git Sebastian rolling his eyes, and John who had the decency to at least try to hold his laughter back, since he noticed how frustrated Sherlock was getting. “Sherlock,” his voice wobbled a bit with the effort not to giggle. “Sorry, but it’s not the victim.”

 

“It’s the only possible explanation,” Sherlock assured, frowning at the others as they continued to giggle.

 

“It’s not in the rules,” John argued.

 

“Well, then the rules are wrong!” he hollered back, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

 

“Alright, alright,” Irene abated, amused but the slightest bit annoyed at the back-and-forth, “Game over. Sherlock wins.” She swept up the playing pieces from the board.

 

Suddenly, a hand of cards was thrown violently down to the table and the last remnants of laughter disappeared. “You’ve got to be joking,” Sebastian piped up indignantly from his gloomy corner of the table. He looked over at Sherlock with utter disgust. “Just because he’s socially retarded, you let him win out of pity?”

 

Sherlock’s breath was torn from his lungs. He should have seen this coming, the way Sebastian had smirked so condescendingly down at Sherlock’s open hand when they met, and barely shook it as if merely touching Sherlock would bring him some kind of misfortune. How did those people always _know?_ Could they somehow smell the developmental disorder on him? Sherlock suddenly felt as if he was back in secondary school, and the fun of the evening dissipated within seconds.

 

“What the fuck?!” resounded around the room, and everyone looked to John, who was practically steaming from the ears. Sherlock thought he could feel the raging heat pulsating from his body. “You know you’re the only dickhead who even uses that word anymore,” John yelled, though Sherlock’s brain automatically corrected him: _You’d be surprised_.

 

Sebastian had been sitting in shocked silence from the outburst, but now he smirked again as if nothing unsavoury had been said at all. “Look,” he began, “I don’t hate autistics. My cousin’s neighbour is just as childish as--” Sherlock’s blood boiled with indignation; _him_ childish?! He was filled with so much inspired confidence from John sticking up for him that he allowed a stream of deductions to run through his head and out of his mouth without a second’s hesitation.

 

“I take it Sebastian is throwing the rattle out of the pram because of his absolute inability to accept anything less than first place… which you had better get used to by the way,” Sherlock added as a side note, now directing his words directly at the bully. It was nerve-wracking, but he continued out of sheer adrenaline: “It’s obvious this competitive obsession started when you were kicked out of private school, but I wonder: were your below-average grades enough to warrant an exclusion, or was it your actively stalking a teacher that pushed you over the edge?”

 

There was the softest gasp of amazement from John, and Sherlock’s cheeks heated at the sound. He kept his glare fixed on Sebastian, though, as the oaf’s mouth hung open and snapped shut continuously and in quick succession. Sherlock could finally understand why Mycroft referred to people as goldfish.

 

There was an awful screech that made Sherlock’s eyes fall shut for the sensory pain of it, but he opened them just in time to see Sebastian storming out of the room, only briefly pausing in the doorway to sneer “Freak!”

 

The door slammed shut, and Sherlock was so busy masking the hurt that so strongly wanted to show on his face that he couldn’t pay any attention to the bombardment of questions hurled his way:

 

“How did you--”

 

“What the--”

 

“Is that seriously--”

 

“Who’s up for monopoly?” John’s voice overtook the rest of them, looking over at Sherlock with a straight face that only just failed to conceal the pride sparkling in his eyes. Sherlock’s heart fluttered at the sight.

 

“No, no, no, you can’t get out of this that easily,” Irene insisted, leaning over the table towards Sherlock, revealing an inordinate amount of cleavage. Sherlock actively turned his head away from the display. “Come on, how did you know all of that, Rabbit?”

 

Sherlock sneered in distaste at the nickname she had picked up for him, outright refusing to pay her any attention. “I hate Monopoly,” he stated, hoping the room would accept the change of subject.

 

“Me too!” Molly excitedly agreed. Sherlock sighed, not being able to find her desperation to impress him anything less than dreadfully irritating.

 

He could hear Irene grinding her teeth in frustration; she was clearly accustomed to getting her way. “Alright,” she began, uncharacteristically serene, “We don't have to play monopoly, Rabbit.” Sherlock shot a glare at her, only belatedly realising that was exactly what she’d been aiming for as she held up a small, black box, that boasted a hot pink font reading _Sussed: After Dark._ Sherlock’s brow furrowed infinitesimally. What exactly did this game consist of, he wondered.

 

“Now that Oscar the Grouch has fucked off to bed,” Irene’s head nodded to the door, clearly indicating Sebastian, “It's time for the real fun to start!” She directed a wink at Sherlock. At almost the exact same moment, John’s chair creaked in protest as John bristled and straightened his posture. Sherlock directed his attention to him, and John sent him a tight smile in response. He seemed bothered about something. Sherlock only accepted that it must be the uncomfortable plastic chairs that would make anyone's bum go numb.

 

Cards were dealt out in front of them, and Sherlock was surprised to note each person only had one.

 

“So, we all take turns to read out our questions and the available answers, and the others have to guess what the correct answer is,” Irene explained, starting to make a cocktail pitcher.

 

The game sounded simple enough and somewhat dull for Irene’s excitement to make any sense. Sherlock turned his card over and suddenly it was crystal clear to him why Irene wanted to play this game as he read the writing (also hot pink, and framed by little cartoon hearts) on his card:

 

> **1\. What would I look for in the early stages of a relationship?**
> 
> A. Effortless conversation.  
>  B. Similar interests.  
>  C. Bedroom action.
> 
>  
> 
> **2\. Which would I find easiest to give up for a year?**
> 
> A. Masturbation.  
>  B. Sugar.  
>  C. Caffeine.
> 
>  
> 
> **3\. What do I wish [player on my left] would do?**
> 
> A. Take me out to dinner.  
>  B. Set me up with one of their friends.  
>  C. Switch lives with me for a week.

 

Of course Irene would choose a card game that forced the players to reveal their deepest secrets and insecurities. It suited her perfectly, from what Sherlock had gathered of her personality over the past hour. He was only surprised she hadn’t invented the game herself.

 

“It does help for you to be intoxicated, so everyone get a drink,” Irene practically sang to the room at large, unduly excited.

 

“It helps us or it helps _you_?” John commented slyly, getting up slightly wobbly to grab another drink. Sherlock’s mouth twitched in pleasant surprise. Oh, John was very smart.

 

“Oh, I remember this game,” Victor leered suggestively, chuckling to himself as he looked over his own card. It filled Sherlock with an all-encompassing sense of dread. Irene was in her element, bouncing with impatience to start the game and pouring out drinks for Victor and Molly, whose head had slouched down to her arms, clearly unused to drinking so heavily.

 

“Molly!” Irene scolded her, “Come on, the night’s just getting started.”

 

Sherlock glanced at his watch, thoroughly confused. It was eleven-thirty.

 

“Sherlock?” He looked up to see John holding up a beer in mid-air, eyebrows raised.

 

“Uh, yes?” he asked, unsure of why John needed him.

 

Rather strangely, John just smiled and grabbed another bottle of beer, opening them both and bringing them to the table, placing one directly in front of - _Oh_ , Sherlock realised. John had been asking Sherlock if he wanted a beer and… Sherlock must have agreed.

  
He cleared his throat, stroking his fingers nervously up and down the neck of the bottle, observing how John took a hasty swig as soon as he was seated. Sherlock slowly raised the bottle to his lips and tipped a bit into his mouth. He spluttered a bit as the bitter, fizzing liquid poured down his throat. It wasn’t entirely awful... It wasn't particularly nice, either. But this is what people did at parties. _Besides,_ Sherlock thought, his watery eyes smiling at a concerned John in reassurance as he took another reluctant sip, _I can’t possibly get drunk from just two units._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to split this one into two parts; partly so I could bring you this part of the fic quicker, but also so I can build a bit more suspense ;)
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments! Your messages really keep me going when things get tricky ♥️
> 
> Coming next: Some drunken truths are revealed.


	4. A Fun Night In - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers both the joy and pain of lowered inhibitions as the flatmates play a game that promises to reveal the players' deepest desires.

Sherlock was heavily inebriated.

 

The rules of Irene’s game had quickly developed to include drinking as a penalty for wrong answers and, despite his mental prowess, the highly-sexual question topics were beyond Sherlock’s typical levels of heightened comprehension. The more he mis-deduced, the more he drank, and vice-versa. As a result, Sherlock was already on his second beer, and distinctively more giddy than usual.

 

It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced. He knew for a fact that he’d never wanted to drink alcohol because of the physical and mental damage that it did to your body, but, at this moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to _care_. Everything was hazy, difficult to concentrate on, and quite nauseating; very much like the days where he’d forget to eat or drink a thing, only happier and less like he was going to collapse. Although, he struggled to recall whether he had, in fact, eaten today. Sherlock wracked his brain for an answer but it was incredibly fuzzy in there.

 

“Sherlock,” came a singing voice, and Sherlock blinked over at John out of instinct.

 

“Hmm?” he hummed, leaning forwards to get a better look at John’s face. The pink lips turned upwards then revealed a pearly white smile, and something soft was pushing against his shoulder.

 

“Over there, you git,” came John’s lovely voice, and Sherlock frowned, turning around to where John was pointing.

 

“Stop assuming everyone is John!” Irene scolded, blood-red lipstick not as bright as it had been earlier on in the evening, “You’ve not given an answer to Molly’s question.”

 

“Irene,” Molly pleaded, “Really, he doesn’t need to…”

 

“No, no. I can do it,” Sherlock sat up straighter, aware of a persistent warm weight on his shoulder. He lazily turned to see what it was, but when his vision finally focussed, the weight was gone.

 

“C’mon, Molly,” John urged, putting his hand in his pocket. “Jus’ tell him what it was!”

 

“Alright,” Molly groaned, hair a mess from the humidity in the room and her constant fiddling with it. She laid her chin in her hand in a rather desolate manner as she repeated the final question on her card: “Would I rather A) be spanked with a steak, B) have ice cream licked off my belly button, or C) have honey drizzled over my nipples.”

 

Sherlock revered in shocked disgust so dramatically that he nearly collapsed backwards off of his chair. It was only John’s quick reflexes that saved him from falling flat on his back.

 

Sherlock’s breath was entirely winded, not just from the impact of the catch, but for the fact that John’s arms were still wrapped tightly around his shoulders and neck, even as Sherlock righted himself on his seat. The others were fighting back drunken laughter as Sherlock’s head swum with the dizziness of the fall and the magnificent colours of John’s eyes.

 

“You ‘kay?” John’s voice cracked a little. An effect of alcohol consumption, surely. Sherlock swallowed and nodded silently, finally filling his lungs with air that felt so stuffy and inadequate in the sweaty room. Then he suddenly felt vulnerable and lonely; John had finally released him.

 

“Oh, fuck the answer, it’s my turn!” Victor yelled impatiently, though in good-humour. Molly’s sigh of relief was barely audible. “Come on, everyone,” Victor invited with an air of flamboyance, “I’m an open book.”

 

“We don’t doubt that,” Sherlock muttered, snarkiness unrelenting even during intoxication. It was absolutely the best feeling in the world to make John laugh, though, and Sherlock thought that he would do his best to make it happen even if he were on his deathbed. The sentimental morbidity of it made Sherlock giggle to himself, feeling whimsical and light.

 

“How many of these have I done?” Victor read out, standing up on his chair to the distress of Molly, who held out her arms lest he lose his balance. He was on a similar level of drunkenness as Sherlock was, after all, so the concern was well founded.

 

“A) Had sex in a car,” Victor drawled with a smirk. Very telling. “B) Had sex in a field… and C) Had sex in a kitchen.” He lowered his card, searching around the room for the first person to guess.

 

“Two?” Molly ventured, biting her lip in embarrassment, still keeping a careful eye on Victor’s wobbly stance.

 

“Three!” Sherlock shouted - the most confident he had been all night - at the exact same moment as John yelled “All of ‘em!”

 

“I agree with the lovebirds,” came from Irene, and Sherlock’s head spun around to look at her so fast that it was a few seconds before his vision had settled to be able to see her knowing smirk.

 

“All of them,” Victor confirmed, pride evident in his voice.

 

“Whore,” Irene laughed.

 

“You know it, slut,” Victor rallied back, lowering onto his knees on the table to crawl across and plant a wet kiss on Irene’s cheek. She scoffed and pushed his face away, not aggressively, but enough for him to topple sideways into John’s beer bottle, spilling it over the knees of Sherlock’s trousers. It took a slow moment’s hesitation, but Sherlock eventually stood, the liquid seeping down the lower half of his jeans.

 

“Fuck’s sake, Vic,” someone expressed their distaste before Sherlock had the chance, then he was grabbed by the arm and being dragged out of the room. He couldn’t see his face, but he wasn’t too far gone to realise that it was John guiding him into Sherlock’s own room. The hold on his wrist was tight but gentle.

 

“John?” Sherlock mumbled confusedly as he was finally lead into the bedroom.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry this happened again, Sherlock,” he complained, running his hand through his hair. Why was he so stressed?

 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock faintly slurred, still heavily confused. He collapsed to sit on his bed, grateful for the soft cushioning after those horrible kitchen seats.

 

“But smelly drink, all over your beautiful... clothes,” John finished a little awkwardly, biting his lip. He finally turned, approaching the box Sherlock’s clothes were haphazardly stuffed in after it took him so long to decide on an outfit for the evening. John picked up a pair of trousers and held them up in Sherlock’s bleary line of sight. “These?”

 

Sherlock blinked then suddenly realised what he was suggesting. “Yes, perfect,” he said, undoing his flies and struggling to pull off the wet skinny jeans as he was seated. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock looked up to see him turning his face away from Sherlock with an amused smile gracing his features.

 

“You’re not half different when you’re tipsy, are you?” John chuckled a little nervously. Sherlock finally wrestled his feet out of the jeans and fell back to lie splayed out on his mattress.

 

“Uh, Sherlock, I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” John cautioned. As if on command, nausea that had been swirling quietly in Sherlock’s stomach before was suddenly rampaging through his body and he bolted upright, clenching his hands tightly in his duvet.

 

“Uh… I don’t feel very…” Sherlock stopped to hold back a gag, closing his eyes to stop the room from spinning. He felt a dip in the bed by his side and then John was making gentle shushing noises and rubbing Sherlock’s back firmly. It helped immensely.

 

“I told you not to,” John whispered, hand still tracing steady circles over Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock just swallowed and breathed in through his nose, not doing anything to worsen the sickness. “When’s the last time you ate anything?” John questioned.

 

Sherlock searched his brain again and came up with a rough estimate. “Between three and five --”

 

“See, that’s why--”

 

“-- yesterday afternoon,” Sherlock finished, earning him a sudden silence from John.

 

“You’re not serious,” he finally warned, seeing the sincere look on Sherlock’s face. “Jesus, Sherlock! Wait here.” He got up and hurried out of the room, to Sherlock’s gentle whine “Don’t go…”

 

But John quickly returned with a whole packet of sliced bread and a jar of peanut butter, clearly having foregone cutlery or crockery in his haste. “Eat,” he demanded, placing both foods directly in Sherlock’s lap.

 

Usually Sherlock was reluctant to follow instruction, but in this case, he was sure John knew best, so he tore into the bread bag and tucked in. After a couple quiet minutes of munching on bread dipped in peanut butter, Sherlock was feeling a lot better and John even appeared to look a lot less groggy as he’d snatched a slice himself.

 

“Better, innit?” John smiled over at Sherlock. “Ready to go back in?”

 

Sherlock held up a finger, knowing just what else he needed. He jumped up - the bread and peanut butter tumbling to the ground as a result - and opened his window. Sherlock leaned into the opening, letting the refreshing air blow over his face. It sobered him up a little, and all at once he remembered that he was in his pants, bending over directly in front of his flatmate. Sure enough, when he turned back around, John was just turning his head away - feigning nonchalance. Sherlock snatched up the clean jeans left on the bed and jumped into them as quickly as was possible with his slowed muscle function.

 

* * *

 

When the two boys finally returned to the kitchen, the others whistled suggestively. Molly was absent from the room, unsurprising as she’d looked so tired when they were last here.

 

“You two took your sweet time,” Irene leered suggestively, the alcohol finally appearing to inhibit her usual coolness as she burst into giggles at her own dirty joke.

 

“Alright, alright. Calm down, you two,” John teased, smiling cheekily and collapsing back into his seat. Sherlock did likewise, confused as to why John wasn’t urgently defending his heterosexuality.

 

After their bedroom excursion - well, of course people would assume things if that’s how he referred to it - Sherlock was feeling much more like he was back in the sweet spot of being tipsy without the severe mental delay or nausea.

 

“We kept playing without you,” Victor explained faux-apologetically, putting his hand on John’s shoulder and massaging it a little. “That alright, love?”

 

Sherlock was filled with unbridled rage, heart clenching at the sight of such an intimate touch between the two. Before he could even think about how to protest this detestable act, he felt a change in the air and turned to find that Irene had moved her chair within millimetres of Sherlocks.

 

“I know you’re itching to have your go, Rabbit,” she pouted, an extreme juxtaposition to the mischievous glint in her eyes. She stretched her bare arm around him, causing Sherlock’s shoulders to tense up to his neck. “But you’ll just have to wait your turn. John, it’s your go,” she beamed, her hand squeezing gently on Sherlock’s shoulder, the one closest to John.

 

“Fine,” he agreed with an audible huff - irritated for some unknown reason. Shrugging Vic’s hand off, he read aloud from his card: “Who would I rather be massaged by…” He threw suspicious glances at Irene and Victor, who were struggling to contain their amusement. John went on, rolling his eyes subtly, “A) A man, B) a woman, or C) I don’t mind either way.” He chuckled a little, shaking his head, “What kind of a question is this? Honestly,” his smile was faltering, and there was the faintest hint of panic evident on his face.

 

Sherlock thought it was a very revealing question, in fact, and was eager for John to get over this silliness and answer the damn thing.

 

“A man,” Irene squinted over at John, clearly anticipating the answer with much the same level of interest as Sherlock was. Victor guessed the same, even daring to wink at John.

 

John looked expectantly over at Sherlock, smile fading entirely as Sherlock’s thoroughly contemplative gaze fixed on him. He was looking for a sign - anything at all - that would dispute the answer Sherlock feared to be the truth. It came almost instantly, as John licked his lips slowly, subconsciously when his eyes flitted down to Sherlock’s mouth.

 

The world came screeching to a halt, and Sherlock blinked, mind racing with the revelation. “You don’t mind,” Sherlock muttered, his epiphany just so happening to bear the same words as the correct answer on the card. “Either way.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” John conceded, eyes not daring to leave Sherlock’s, as if he was held in some sort of trance. There was an energy passed between them that Sherlock couldn’t precisely pinpoint, and with a clearing of his throat John broke the trance and moved right into the next question:

 

“Right... Which do I prefer? A) romance, B) raunchiness,” John was back in a jovial spirit, wiggling his eyebrows at the rest of the table, “or C) relaxation.”

 

“Raunchiness!” Irene and Victor shouted in unison, followed by Sherlock’s guess, “Relaxation?”

 

“Everyone drink,” John said triumphantly.

 

Sherlock was surprised, though not unpleasantly so, dutifully sipping his drink Irene and Victor.

 

“And finally,” John announced with an air of importance, waiting for everyone’s undivided attention. He looked at the final question on his card and a surprised gasp of laughter escaped him, to everyone’s amusement and intrigue. When John was done chuckling, he spoke sheepishly from behind his hand, grin peeking out from between his fingers. “What impact do I think seeing the person on my right naked would have on our relationship?” He indicated Sherlock with a weak nod of the head, eyes not leaving his card. Sherlock’s face set alight as the others whooped in some bizarre celebration.

 

“Settle down!” John laughed above the noise. “Would it A) be the most horrifically awkward thing to ever happen to us, B) make us more comfortable around each other,” John’s free hand reached over blindly to pat Sherlock’s knee, then rested there gently. “Or C)... increase the sexual tension.” John’s face was red and his cheeks must have ached from grinning so widely.

 

“What do you think, Rabbit?” Irene shot at Sherlock instantly. He was sure that no matter what he said, he would be ridiculed for his assumption. He shrugged, eyes fixed firmly on his lap, trying with all his might to breathe calmly and stop his heart from pounding quite so violently against his chest. “Uh… B?”

 

“I think I can speak for myself and Vic,” Irene announced, “C.” It sounded so confident, Sherlock could hardly believe the gall.

 

“Well then?” Victor urged John, his tone indecently excited.

 

The room was held in bated breath as they awaited John’s answer. Sherlock could hear his spiked pulse drumming in his ears and, if John prolonged this any further, he thought he might just faint.

 

John finally inhaled deeply and turned to Sherlock. After a moment’s more suspense, he murmured with a sly smile, “You better take a drink, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock’s lip trembled in shocked silence as the room went into an uproar. Despite the lack of a large group, the volume definitely made up for it - especially with Irene’s less than sober yells of “I knew it!” and Victor slapping the table repeatedly with his hands.

 

Sherlock nodded at John, not knowing how else to respond, and took a few steady gulps of his drink, postponing the fact that he would have to say something eventually. He kept his eyes firmly shut as he replayed the words in his mind. _Increase the sexual tension_ _… Take a drink, Sherlock._ Sherlock had noted John’s bisexuality not moments ago - which was enough of a revelation as it was - but this was different. This was exactly what Sherlock wanted. This made Sherlock’s desire leap for the sky and his mind swim with endless hope. This was _dangerous_.

 

He lifted his eyes to John’s face and was met with a gaze that was much less desiring, and much more concerned. Of course, it could have only been a joke - some cruel ‘banter’ that John was now regretting. Surely John couldn’t mean that he truly desired Sherlock - and if he did, Sherlock was certain that he didn’t know the disaster he was getting himself into. Sherlock had to avoid this topic at all costs, lest he encourage the notion.

 

“Question one,” Sherlock shot out before he’d even finished swallowing his last sip of beer, “What would I look for in the early stages of a relationship? A) Effortless conversation, B) similar interests, or C) bedroom action. Question two,” he immediately continued, to the stuttered protest of the others. Determined, he powered through regardless, “Which would I find easiest to give up for a year? A) Masturbation, B) Sugar, or C) caffeine. And finally,” his stomach bubbled away with wrecked nerves, “What do I wish the player on my left would do? A) Take me out to dinner, B) Set me up with one of their friends, or C) switch lives with me for a week.”

 

He inhaled a much-needed breath, ignoring how Irene was telling him off for skipping all of their guesses. He’d been under the impression that firing through the questions would make everyone confused as to what they actually were, but there was no confusion on anyone’s faces: only blatant intrigue.

 

“Go on then,” Victor encouraged.

 

“Yeah, what's the answer?” John eagerly leaned closer to Sherlock, who gulped around the lump in his throat.

 

“A,” he answered, unable to stop himself, “For all of them.”

 

John’s hand tightened on Sherlock’s knee - he had forgotten it was even there - and suddenly the reality of what he’d just admitted came crashing down on him. Why, oh why, did he tell the truth? Victor was laughing hysterically, John’s face was pulled into one of surprise, and Irene was making some crude comment that was lost on Sherlock's pounding ears. He was feeling overwhelmingly nauseous again, though, this time, it had nothing to do with the drinking. Everything was suddenly too much for Sherlock to handle.

 

“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled hastily, scrambling out of his seat to retreat to his bedroom, all the while cursing alcohol and its ability to manipulate people into revealing things they really should keep hidden. For everyone’s sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game the flatmates play in this chapter is real (available to buy [here](https://www.amazon.co.uk/SUSSED-Hilarious-Cheeky-Conversation-NSFW/dp/B076VQWJ2C)), and the questions presented in the chapter have been taken verbatim from just a few of the cards. I highly recommend it for social gatherings, as it does garner some interesting results!
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed the latest instalment of the story, it was the most difficult to write for me so far... Let me know your thoughts in the comments! 
> 
> Coming up next: John prepositions Sherlock with an offer he can't refuse... Or can he?


	5. Great Offers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock decide to clear the air from the previous night, but putting such deep revelations behind them is proving to be rather difficult for Sherlock to process.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the garden, reading a biology textbook his mother had bought him. The bees were eerily silent, even as they swarmed around his hands.

> _ And so, given the physical signifiers (including, but not limited to: blushing, licking his lips, constantly looking down to your own lips) we can confidently assume that John Watson must be bisexual and attracted to you. _

Sherlock slammed the book shut, his head spinning so fast he had to close his eyes as he fell to the ground. He huddled into an upright foetal position and began hitting his legs in multiples of four. Painful, grounding, calming.

 

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft’s disapproving voice washed over him, making everything go cold - the world freezing over. He looked up to see his brother standing at the top of a set of marble steps. “Control yourself. No one wants to see that.” His breath swirled around him like wisps of smoke in the icy temperature.

 

“Yeth, I know, I’m thorry,” Sherlock apologised, pleaded. The return of his lisp made him feel small and stupid and he burst into tears without warning, throwing himself face-down on the hard, frozen ground. Mycroft’s cruel laughter reverberated all around him.

 

The cackling eventually dwindled to reveal the sound of running liquid, and Sherlock lifted his head from his pillow to walk over to his closet. Water was pouring from the seams of the doors, and Sherlock felt inordinately terrified of what was inside. He took a shaky breath and opened the doors, stepping inside only to find himself in a room that looked quite similar to his own university bedroom, but without his personal belongings.

 

There was no indication of where the water had been coming from, or even that there had been any water at all. The room was stark white, almost blueish in the cold light - except there was a shining orange rectangle at the end of it; a window. Standing in front of that window was a topless figure, smooth and sturdy. John turned, his soft smile bringing the sunlight from outside into the room, making everything glow like embers. Sherlock was overcome by a soothing warmth that spread through his entire being, watching John pace towards him until their chests were gently touching - it was here that Sherlock realised his torso was also bare. John leaned up, his breath tickling Sherlock’s neck, to whisper delicately into Sherlock’s ear: ‘ _ I don’t mind.’ _

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, stinging at the intensity of the sun blaring in through the open window. People could be heard milling around outside in the accommodation car park; gossiping, smoking, playing football. It was evidently gone noon. He groaned, throat dry and head twinging with dehydration. Mild veisalgia. Enough to put him in a less than agreeable mood, not enough to cause severe hindrance to biological functioning. He supposed his first experience of drinking was at least moderately sensible.

 

His phone pinged, vibrating the floor mildly, and Sherlock slumped down over the edge of his mattress to check the notification, only to find no less than 9 unread messages from John.

 

* * *

 

John Watson

(Active 1 minute ago)

 

TUE 00:52

 

Serrlock why’d you go??   
00:52

 

IT was fun with you here

00:52

 

Ok I know why yo left..

00:55

 

Come back Irene is calling me

a ball whore!

01:04

 

Thre is context but you have to

com back to find out waht it is ;)

01:06

 

I guess your asslep?now

01:10

 

I hope your ok. X

01:16

 

TUE 11:35

 

Sherlock? You alright? No one’s

seen you this morning.

11:35

 

TUE 13:03

 

I won’t hesitate to kick your

door in if you’re dead.

13:03

 

_ Sherlock set the nickname for John to ‘Ball Whore’ _

 

Thank god

13:06

 

No, I’m not delusional.

13:06

 

Good to see you’re back

to normal.

13:07

 

Normal?

13:07

 

Your normal.

13:08

 

More or less.

13:08

 

Join me in the kitchen?

13:11

 

No one else is here.

13:14

 

Alright.

13:15

 

* * *

 

Sherlock made his way to the kitchen after brushing his teeth and changing from the clothes he’d slept in - honestly, what was he thinking wearing his blue jeans with the mauve silk shirt? He can’t have been so inebriated as to be completely senseless.

 

John greeted him with a smile and a freshly-boiled kettle, asking how Sherlock liked his tea. It seemed they weren’t yet to mention the strangeness of last night, given how John made an effort to make things so casual, but something about his cautionary politeness around Sherlock made it clear that the air between them had to be cleared sooner rather than later.

 

“Three sugars, please,” Sherlock went along with the calm facade, letting himself dwell on how easily the dynamic between John and him was allowed to flow when they were alone. And it was certainly improved when they were both sober, too.

 

“No milk?” John questioned.

 

“I take oat milk, I’ll buy some later,” Sherlock explained, reluctantly admitting to himself that he would, at some point, need to buy groceries.

 

John nodded, bringing the two mugs of tea over to the table. He didn’t sit down, to Sherlock’s faint disappointment, but turned back to grab two plates of peanut butter toast. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him as John sat down and pushed one over to him. John winked over his mouthful of tea and Sherlock dug right in, avoiding having to come up with some sort of reaction to that damnable blink of ambiguous meaning.

 

“Actually,” John rasped after gulping his too-hot tea. He sat up straighter and clenched his fist briefly on the table before hiding it in his lap.  _ Preparation for a Chat, with a capital C, _ Sherlock’s brain provided. “I thought we might clear the air a bit…”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and cleared his throat from the clogginess of the peanut butter, “Right. Yes.”

 

“Last night,” John started, eyes not looking up from his steaming mug. “That stupid game was - I just, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he said decidedly. With a deep inhale (appearing to steel himself) he finally met Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do with the amount of data present there:  _ Guilt, fondness, confusion, shame. Less than five hours sleep. _ “I think I got a bit, uh, uncomfortable.”

 

There it was, Sherlock concluded, every muscle of his body deflating imperceptibly. John was erasing the revelations made last night, he felt uncomfortable knowing Sherlock might be romantically interested in him. Sherlock closed his eyes and mentally scolded himself.  _ Your only chance of a friend and you scared him off with your desperation. _

 

“I know you won’t admit it but I could tell you were, too,” John added knowingly. Sherlock looked at him, surprised by John’s ability to read his vulnerabilities. John sighed, “You… You clearly haven’t done this before.” Sherlock couldn’t hide his surprise. Was it really that obvious he had never had a friend? “You’re inexperienced, and that’s totally fine,” John was quick to make this certain. “But I don’t want either of us to be put in a compromising position. I was thinking, how about we take things slow? We have got the rest of uni to work it out.”

 

John’s words were more confusing than insightful now, but Sherlock thought he got the gist of it. John wanted to be friends with Sherlock, but wasn’t quite sure of it yet, so he wanted to test the waters. It was perfectly understandable, if uncustomary. They were to be acquaintances until further established. That was fine, good, even. Though the emptiness in Sherlock’s chest made it feel otherwise.

 

“So… Friends?” John offered, the slightest intonation of fear in his voice.

 

Sherlock ignored the contradictory term, putting it down to John’s nervousness.

 

“Quite,” Sherlock adorned his ‘crowd-pleaser’ smile, the one that seeped into his eyes, and he wasn’t let down by John’s returned grin.

 

“Posh boy,” John laughed, munching his toast with an amused shake of his head.

 

“Ball whore,” Sherlock bounced back, still unsure of what it was meant to reference. John could evidently see his mind whirring, and he shook his head lightly at Sherlock.

 

“Nope, I’m not telling you. You can figure it out,” he said, half-challenging, half-amused. They sat in comfortable silence for a minute before John seemed to remember something. “You were right by the way.” He further explained, going by Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, “Seb was expelled for stalking a teacher. Moved to my school in year eleven, we all gossiped about it in sixth form.”

 

“Knew it,” Sherlock smirked. It could have been considered sadistic, but the bastard deserved it for the bigoted idiocy he exemplified.

 

“Was good to finally see him knocked down a peg,” John grinned, mouth full of toast. He swallowed thickly, chasing it up with a couple of sips of tea. “Right, after you’ve eaten we’re going to Tesco.” Sherlock sighed audibly, dramatically, and John rolled his eyes with just as much gusto, rising from his seat, “You’re not nicking my food for the rest of the year.”

 

“Agreed, but you’re fully stocked; why must you come with me?” Sherlock asked, more for appearances than anything, as he really wouldn’t mind having John’s company. He disliked shopping, and John’s presence was sure to make it at least withstandable.

 

“Just want to stretch my legs,” John shrugged innocently, turning as he took both of their empty plates to the sink.  _ Slight favour of the right leg, sore muscles, physical fatigue. _

 

“Even after your exerting run this morning?” Sherlock revealed, causing John to stop in surprise and turn back to Sherlock, jaw slack, lips parted. There was a faintly discernible pink tint to the tips of his ears.

 

“Alright, genius, you have to tell me how you do that so easily.”

 

Sherlock straightened in his seat, deductive reasoning on the tip of his tongue, but John held up a stern finger and spoke before he had the chance: “On our way to Tesco.”

 

Sherlock squinted half-heartedly at John, keeping quiet for now - and feeling thoroughly conflicted as to why he followed John’s direction so readily after a lifetime of disobeying authoritative figures.

 

“I take it you’re coming to list nutritional facts and ensure I get the right foods to let me grow up big and strong,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

 

“No,” John shook his head firmly, “I won’t be doing any of that. I’m not your mother.”

 

* * *

 

“Seriously, Sherlock, the sugar content in those--”

 

“I thought you weren’t going to lecture me on my basket?” Sherlock complained, but he couldn’t help his amused smirk.

 

“I didn’t think you’d be buying solely from the chocolate and snacks aisle!”

 

Sherlock threw a multipack of Jammy Dodgers into the basket to join a selection of fizzy sweets, chocolate bars, and, of course, the oat milk.

 

“Relax, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his way out from the sweet section. “I am going to get bread. And my own tea,” he added on, swerving to grab a box of Yorkshire Gold from the offers shelf. “Your supermarket own-brand stuff was practically sewage water.” Sherlock picked up a selection of lollipops while he was at it, knowing how he liked an oral stim during his experiments.

 

“Honestly, your workout regime must be mental.”

 

“I don’t have one,” Sherlock shrugged, opening the Jammy Dodgers pack and shoving a whole biscuit into his mouth. His head felt heavy and swishy after almost 48 hours with nothing but peanut butter and bread. He needed sugar.

 

John looked flabbergasted, and his eyes drifted down and then up again over Sherlock, whose cheeks were burning pink from the long-held gaze. He wondered whether this was how people felt when he scanned their person for his deductive practice.

 

“But… I mean, your body is just -” John inhaled, pulling his lips tightly shut. Whatever was on his mind was making his breath shallow.

 

Both boys stood in a charged silence for what felt like minutes - though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds - until Sherlock desperately searched around for anything else to look at besides the blown pupils of John’s eyes that still lingered over his figure.

 

Thankfully, his eye was caught by the bright red sign bragging ‘2 for 3’ on organic honey. He glided over and swept half the shelf into his basket, having to perch it on his hip from the weight of it all. The metal digging into his ribs served as a grounding method so that he wouldn’t get carried away in mentally reciting the biology of attraction.

 

“Have, um… Have you got some kind of chemistry experiment with honey?” John looked genuinely interested. Sherlock was impressed that John had come to a deduction of his own about Sherlock’s interest in scientific experimenting, even though on this occasion it was incorrect.

 

“No, honey’s just really yummy.”

 

John stopped in his tracks, humour lighting up his features. At least it was no longer awkward between them, though Sherlock wasn’t sure how much of an improvement this would be. “ _ Yummy? _ ”

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock grumbled, regretting his words instantly.

 

“I can’t believe you just said yummy,” John was practically giddy.

 

“I misspoke,” Sherlock argued, but John’s grin was as wide as ever. Sherlock sped away to the bread aisle, knowing full-well John’s short legs would struggle to keep up.

 

“Wait, Sherlock!” John suddenly called, sounding urgent. Sherlock stopped, turning to see what was bothering him. John jogged over, face deadly serious, and stopped directly in front of him. Almost as close as in his dream.

 

“Is honey yummy in your tummy?”

 

“That is  _ it _ ,” Sherlock half-yelled, grabbing one of the honey bottles and flipping the cap, holding it threateningly over John who was laughing so hard, he didn’t even notice the impending stickiness. Sherlock’s lips lifted slowly as he watched John gasping for breath, his face one of utter joy, and he couldn’t stop a quiet laugh from escaping his own lips.

 

“S-sorry, Sherlock. Don’t --’” John gasped out, still chuckling.

 

“You deserve this,” Sherlock assured, grinning wildly and lightly squeezing the bottle over John’s head. But John’s reflexes were remarkably practised, and he was able to catch the single glob of honey in his mouth, smiling triumphantly at Sherlock with glistening lips. Sherlock’s breath dwindled from his lungs and he was overcome by the most all-encompassing urge to lick the sweetness from John’s lips.

 

“Oi, Watson!” came a boyish shout from across the shop floor, and both boys could only turn briefly see a figure charging towards them before whoever it was had lugged John over their shoulder and spun him around with a weak growl.

 

Sherlock was shocked by the aggression and dropped his basket, grabbing at the man’s arms and yelling, “Get off of him, you brute!”

 

Then, bizarrely, he heard both John and the stranger laughing together. The man - evidently a few years their older - put John down, chuckling and out of breath. “Sorry, John. Didn’t mean to scare your date,” he shot a roguish smirk at Sherlock - he was conventionally attractive, though much too laddish for Sherlock’s tastes. Sherlock half-glared at him in return.

 

“Don’t worry,” John said, presumably to the other man, but it was Sherlock whom he gifted a reassuring squeeze on the arm. “Sherlock, this madman is Greg,” John faked punching him in the stomach and Greg reciprocated with a feigned groan of pain. Sherlock noted the two’s similar builds and their playful familiarity with each other and came to the obvious conclusion.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock muttered.  _ Ball Whore. _ He looked over to John in understanding, “You’re a rugby captain,” Sherlock’s tone did nothing to conceal his admiration, and John’s face softened, as Sherlock was becoming accustomed to whenever he revealed a deduction to him. It was incredibly encouraging, and in juxtaposition to people’s usual reactions it was downright refreshing.

 

“You figured it out,” John was clearly unsurprised, yet still managed to be impressed. His hand that still rested on Sherlock’s forearm gave a gentle pat then dropped as he finally devoted his attention to Greg. “So, how’ve you been, mate? Haven’t seen you lot in, what, three weeks?”

 

As the two rugby players were catching up, Sherlock took to his knees, clearing up the contents of his basket that had dropped on the floor in his panic. Luckily, nothing had perished. Sherlock took the time on the floor to ponder why John had neglected to correct Greg in his assumption that they were on a date. Going to the supermarket couldn’t be considered a date, Sherlock was certain. And even so, John and he didn’t date in any sense, but his lack of denial didn’t fit into this logic.

 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice broke through his reverie, and Sherlock looked up, his head level with John’s hips. “You going to come?”

 

Sherlock frowned, blinking several times. “I - I’m sorry?”

 

“Wagamama.”

 

“Gesundheit,” Sherlock deadpanned, finally getting off of the floor. “What are you on about?”

 

“It’s a Japanese restaurant,” John explained. “You know,  _ real _ food?”

 

Was John asking him out to dinner? Sherlock’s mind blanked, for a moment, then came a rush of incoherent thought -  _ Food, together, alone, sharing company, intimate setting, dating, not dating, friends, lovers, acquaintances. Too many possibilities. Not enough data. _

 

“C’mon, I think I owe you… for last night,” John’s eyebrows lifted, mouth twitching subtly on one side. 

 

Sherlock blinked, taken aback by the blatant reference to Sherlock’s drunken admission the night before:  _ I wish the player on my left would… Take me out to dinner.  _ After a nervous hesitation, Sherlock finally nodded. “Yes. I’d love to--”

 

“Great!” Greg patted Sherlock on the back, slightly too firm for Sherlock’s liking. He was rather boisterous. “It’ll be nice to get to know John’s new roomie.”

 

_ Wait… _ “I’ll probably invite Molly, too,” John pondered aloud, “Irene and Vic were having a big party tonight and she didn’t seem too interested. Actually,” John’s lips curled into a cheeky grin, “She’s quite your type, Greg…”

 

“Alright then,” Greg seemed to be agreeable. “I’ll text you later about times, yeah?”

 

“Sure, mate,” John beckoned back as Greg started walking away.  _ Not a date, _ Sherlock reprimanded himself,  _ John doesn’t want to date. _

 

“It’s a double date!” Greg yelled behind him before turning a corner, and John just laughed lightly, taking the heavy basket from Sherlock’s tired arms. He was waiting for John to make some kind of ‘no homo’ comment, or even just subtly roll his eyes, but there was nothing. Only the soft eyes looking at him expectantly.

 

“Sherlock? Bread?”

 

John was attracted to him - John only wanted to be friends. They weren’t dating - They were going on a double date. The whole morning was full of contradictions and John’s casual attitude didn’t do anything to help decipher it all.

 

“Ok,” Sherlock followed John to the packs of sliced bread, mind going into overdrive wondering whether it was customary for boys to chivalrously carry their mate’s shopping baskets for them.  _ No data! _

 

Sherlock was thoroughly confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading yet another 3,000 words of my filly ramblings, I hope you continue to enjoy it.
> 
> Now I want to ask you all: What would you really love to see happen in the story, it can be as specific or as broad as you like, but if you do have an idea then please let me know in the comments! The story is unfurling now and I like to have input and inspiration to keep motivated, plus I just love hearing from you guys, you're a great support for me ♥️
> 
> Coming up next: Will John and Sherlock's new agreement withstand the intimacy of an accidental double date?


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